Post 368: Limitations.
Wherever can I start with what’s on my mind today. My limitations are so bloody obvious—and so many—it’s no wonder I swoop into despair sometimes.
I wonder what’s to happen to me. Short term, long term, here, there, everywhere. It’s all the same, it’s all the same problem.
I get asked by a caller, kindly inquiring about why I need the help I’m asking for, and by the time I’ve mentioned stage 4, prostate cancer, incurable, I’ve started to well up and reach for the tissues. This afternoon it happened twice on the phone and once in person.
My old pal arrived on time and, as I guided him round the side of the garage where the ex-weedy patio slabs purport to be a driveway, I was laughing and apologetically reminding him of Saturday gone, really gone.
He knows it’s all ok and we won’t mention it again. We are not strangers—we are people who have lost touch for a while.
We go inside the house—our house, in the middle of the street, ha ha. That song brings me to think of my Darling, with all the history within her, standing in an apron woven by years of inconsequential happenings that more and more mean everything to her, and me.
Time may fly by, but it’s all recorded in that apron. The scars, the tears, the laughter and the fears—they’ve all made their mark and have never been erased by wind or tide, or sun or snow.
The memories are all there and about her as she proudly asks if our visitor wants a drink—which he accepts willingly.
Mine is a dirty engineer’s coat with its rips and wear showing its age.
My prowess is with metal. Metal is putty in my hands (so to speak). My abilities are not shown easily
When I look in the mirror, I see a younger man with ideas aplenty and a wife behind my every move. I ask her, but before I’ve finished she says, “Yes, of course. You don’t need to ask.”
My life is so easy with the surety I have in the things I believe we should do.
But little by little, year by year, there’s a wind of change. The family barometer pointer is falling away, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it—no matter how much I try.
I am now the relic of a dad that was, and the engineer that could do anything.
Now, I cry when asked about my physical condition.
I want to be me. I want to tinker about in the garage and sheds. I want to work with my last ever workmates. I want to ride the bikes I’ve always ridden—but everything now is becoming harder, or too dangerous to even contemplate.
So why the tears when all I want and ask for is a riser recliner to make my sitting and standing that much easier.
I’m not asking for the world—just some advice about a chair.
I come in from the shed, limping. I try to disguise it and think I’ve got away with it—or has my dearest Darling just turned a blind eye.
I’ve done too much today. I’ve tried and failed. I should ask for help, but who would understand. It’s not just anyone that can help.
I only wanted to put the bike on the centre-stand, but I rocked it back and forth like we—the bike and I—were in the throes of learning a new but weird dance.
Why is it that 80-year-olds I know well are still riding and getting their bikes onto a centre-stand—but not me.
All I get is a frustrated feeling of uselessness, and yet another thing on the list of things I have to avoid.
But I got something else too. I pulled a muscle in my back.
That’s why I hobbled into the room late this afternoon.
It hurts like hell, but I say nothing. Two hours of tinkering, gets a back twinge and embarrassed face.
I’m crying inside now. Great big tears. Unstoppable tears, in rivers of worry about when my shed, bike and car keys will be hidden from me. It’s my biggest fear—the day I’m not allowed to play with old bikes and old cars. I know it’s a day closer, but I really can’t think about it.
It hurts too much.
Life’s too short. I’m only 61 and I’m already getting screwed up and I’m heading for the bin.
The call from the very helpful lady finishes with the usual warning that it can take weeks, perhaps months, before I get some help from her system.
It’s not her fault I grabbed the tissues, and to be honest she was brilliant, in that she didn’t ask if I needed a break and carried on sympathetically.
It wasn’t her bad—it was mine.
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The TV was on and, because we took our friend out for lunch, we were only going to pick at bits of food this evening.
I had a bit more rhubarb & trifle and loved it. Why have I not had it before? It’s a real winner.
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The mattress is a winner too, that’s for sure. I am going to love it as somewhere to sleep soundly, but also to repair my ailing body.
My back needs to get sorted after today’s bike maintenance, so I should really be sleeping right now.
Ok, I give in.
I’m not superhuman, but I do try.
Me and the pills are bang on course to keep me well. I have three months of fun with them one day at a time.
What can I say but take care you all.
Love as always
Sleep well, good people of our wonderful forum-land.
Sleep tight.
